The silence that fell over the audience chamber following Lobrecht's arrival was not a peaceful one.
It was a suffocating silence. A toxic quiet born when mortal enemies, labeled traitors, and faction leaders were forced to breathe the same air, each carrying the crushing weight of their own truths.
At the head of the table, Anneliese remained frozen. Her hands, which had been trembling just seconds ago, were now terrifyingly still, clasped so tightly over her stomach that her knuckles had turned white. Her pale blue eyes hadn't strayed from Lobrecht for even a fraction of a second.
"Archbishops," Anneliese's voice finally shattered the mute tension. Her tone wasn't raised. There was no shouting. Yet, the absolute authority woven into her voice left zero room for negotiation. "Leave us."
The first Archbishop—the stout man who had been the most vocal—choked on his own saliva. "Y-Your Eminence! You can't possibly—"
